


come on, museum

by racquetandruin



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Laver Cup, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 18:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20800898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/racquetandruin/pseuds/racquetandruin
Summary: If Roger’s life were a museum, Rafa would be a permanent exhibition.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First post, first fic. Fucking Laver Cup, y'all.

The thing is, he’s starting to think this thing with Rafa is a lifelong condition. Chronic. Incurable. Rapidly progressive, even. Like the pain in his back, he knows now that there’s never going to be a morning where he wakes up and finds himself healed. Finds himself whole. Oh, sure, there are those days when he hardly notices the ache, mornings when he stretches long and slow upon waking and nothing cracks or pulls or nags. There are good weeks, good months—hell, even good years. But there’s always gonna come a day when he wakes and discovers the familiar pain is back before he can even open his eyes. 

“It’s only taken you…what, fifteen years to figure that out? Oh, Roger. You’re not an idiot. I know you’re not. I mean, most of the time, at any rate.”

He’s explaining this recent epiphany to Mirka, and her face is frozen somewhere between shocked glee and comic horror.

“Shut up,” he whines, eyes darting back to the TV. They’re replaying Rafa’s victory presser now, and the volume’s too low for Roger to make out what he’s saying, but he can read the general tone and tenor from the waggle of his eyebrows, his shy grin.

“Roger. Really?” Mirka palms his cheek and slowly turns his head back to her, her fingers soft but insistent on his jaw. There’s stubble there. He’s gotten lazy between slams, has idly pondered growing a beard for the holidays. Playing Santa for the kids. 

“Nevermind. Fuck. I’m just happy he won.” 

Mirka’s smile slips into something softer. Sadder.

“Me, too,” she says, dropping her hand. They both turn back to the TV. They’re replaying Rafa’s match point against Medvedev. He already knows the outcome, but his helpless body plays the fool and tenses reflexively until Rafa’s once again collapsed in relief on Ashe. 

Stupid. He’s so fucking stupid. It’s not like he was ever going to root against Rafa in the final. It’s just that he thought he’d feel, well, more conflicted about the entire affair? That he’d feel at least the smallest smidge of anger? Or resentment? Or sadness, maybe. Anything but the joyful relief he felt when Medvedev’s ball dropped beyond the baseline. Rafa’s just secured his nineteenth Slam, and Roger feels downright giddy. He’s within a hair’s breadth of Roger’s record, and he’s too busy soaking in Rafa’s relieved tears to give a rat’s ass. It’s unnerving, frankly. He’s not upset that Rafa won; he’s upset that he’s _ not _ upset Rafa’s won. Upset, because the electric joy thrumming through his limbs almost feels like a betrayal of their hardwon rivalry. 

So fucking stupid.

Mirka, unlike him, has never been an idiot. She’s one of the smartest people Roger knows, and it takes one look for her to read him like a book. 

“Roger. It’s okay. You can be happy for him. I’m happy for him.”

“Traitor.”

Mirka snorts. 

“I mean, the two of you will be teammates again soon. I’m just getting in the mood early. Practicing.”

Soon. Roger can’t quite bring himself to think about Geneva yet. Rafa must be exhausted. Almost certainly injured. Ready for a vacation. He probably won’t play. Won’t come. He’ll probably call soon, offer up his condolences. Fuck off to the yacht. To sand and water and wedding plans. Roger wonders if he’ll call or just text. Maybe Benito will drop Tony a line. 

No, that’s not Rafa’s style. He’ll call. Of course he will. 

Roger turns off his phone.

**~**

Several years ago, while passing through Amsterdam, he and Mirka had visited the Van Gogh Museum. While Mirka wandered from self portraits to sunflowers, Roger found himself lost in an embarrassingly masturbatory daydream of what a museum dedicated to one Roger Federer might contain. Mirka would have a dedicated wing, and the kids, well, they’d own half the building. His parents, his sister, and Peter would feature prominently, of course. Switzerland. South Africa. Wimbledon would certainly warrant several rooms alone, and he imagines rotating exhibits devoted to his coaches, his rivalries, to FC Basel. To Laver Cup, to Hopman Cup, and yes, even to Davis Cup, though he thinks Stan and Sev have probably earned exclusive rights to that exhibition. 

He’s tempted to share this vision with Mirka. He knows it’ll make her laugh. The ego of it. The oddity. But he can’t quite put the vision into words. He’s such an unbelievable sap (_A crybaby, _ he thinks wryly). Surely, the museum would contain memorable matches, but when he thinks of what he’d most want to keep safe behind glass, what he’d like to preserve forever, he thinks instead of the first time he met Mirka. Rolling around the court with a baby-faced Stan in Beijing. The first time he held the girls. When they first learned Mirka was pregnant with the boys. The first time all four kids were able to watch him play. And smaller moments. Mirka red-cheeked and grinning on the ski slope. Stefan’s quiet smile the first time he SABR-ed with Benoit that evening practice in Cincy. Sev playfully slapping him on the plane with his beat-up Barilla cap. Rafa dutifully filming shot after shot of that now infamous exho advertisement. Rafa’s face tucked against his neck after a hard-fought final. Rafa’s eyes. Rafa’s ass. Rafa’s forehand. Rafa’s smile. Rafa’s utterly ridiculous gravity-defying eyebrows. 

If Roger’s life were a museum, Rafa would be a permanent exhibition. 

Later (much later), when Rafa invites him to Mallorca for his museum’s opening (or rather, after Roger practically begs to attend), he experiences déjà vu as he accepts Rafa’s praise and thanks (and even a personalized collage), as he chats with Rafa’s family and team, as he tours the grounds and facilities. It’s not until he’s standing with Rafa in front of their ‘08 Wimbledon kits that he recalls his earlier daydream. Leave it to Rafa to make even his most shameful fantasies come true. To know what he wants before he can even give voice to it. 

Later (but not much later), he lies in bed and remembers the two of them standing before those ghostly shapes of their younger selves—injured, balding, increasingly irrelevant and incandescently happy. Their eyes meeting in the glass and Rafa’s hand—that hand with each and every callous so utterly, undisputedly, unbelievably dear—affectionately slapping his shoulder and lingering. Gripping. Soothing. Their reflected grins floating Cheshire Cat style in the glass against a sea of gold and cream and ridiculous cardigan. Already half-asleep, he imagines placing the moment on a pedestal and putting it on display next to their kits. Imagines bringing his children to visit. His grandchildren. He won’t have to explain himself or the endless years of tennis and travel and tears and this whole fucking thing with Rafa. They’ll take one look and know (_how could they not? _): This is why. This. Just this.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't that he hadn't known how he felt about Rafa.

  
~

(He thinks it started in 2009 at the Australian Open trophy ceremony, with Rafa’s nose smushed against his temple and a grin so wide Roger can just catch a glimpse of it in his periphery. Rafa’s breath is warm against his cheek, and he’s muttering a steady stream of reassurances in his ear—a nonsense hodgepodge of Spanish, Mallorquin and English punctuated by the occasional huff of laughter. Roger only catches about every third word, but it calms him nonetheless, and everyone else—every_thing _ else—drops away, until there’s just Rafa snug against his side projecting _ warmth _ and _ home _ and _ safe_. He wants to burrow into Rafa and never leave, wants Rafa to wear him like one of his watches, wants to stay here, on Rod Laver, with Rafa until every last person has left and there’s nothing left but sweat and tears and the soft scrape of Rafa’s jacket against his neck. Roger’s whole life up until now has been some kind of half-finished puzzle, waiting on a piece he hadn’t even known was missing, and now that the piece has firmly slotted into place, it seems absurd (sacreligious, even) that he had felt complete without it. A life without Rafa was suddenly inconceivable. Horrifying. 

He thinks it started in 2009, but if he’s brutally honest with himself (and he’s trying to be, is the thing) this whole mess had started much, much earlier. He could say it was Wimbledon ‘08 or ‘07, or hell, even ‘06. Could say it was at the French or at Hamburg in ‘07. Rome in ‘06. But he knows when it really began: their first meeting in Miami. 2004. Rafael Nadal at seventeen, sloe-eyed and sharp cheeked. Not yet fully grown into his biceps. This was back when the teenager had favored a headband that was far too big for his head, ill-fitting shorts, and those tank tops that Roger not-so-secretly coveted. With his wet, wavy hair and sun-kissed skin, he looked not unlike an oceanic deity or some new brand of selkie sprung fully formed from the Mallorcan sea. 

He was, Roger thinks, really rather sweet.

The young man was ruthless on court and painfully shy off of it, but when he shook his opponent’s hand that day, he met Roger’s eyes without flinching, and smiled, something small and private, just for the two of them. Here it was then. The one he didn’t know he’d been waiting for. “Oh, no,” he muttered to himself later in the locker room, with his team gathered around and the press waiting. _ Oh, yes, _ he thinks, privately. _Yes. Finally. You’re here. Thank god you’re here. _) 

~

It’s increasingly hard to remember a time when he _ hadn’t _felt this way about Rafa. 

~

(Mirka’s always known that Roger is bisexual—the same way she’s always known, well, everything about him. Before they’d married, they used to share fantasies and joke about the silly crushes they had on other players, other coaches (“I’d only let you sleep with Safin, if you let me sleep with Safin,” Mirka was fond of telling him at the most inopportune moments, only to cackle when he’d choke on his wine or trip mid-stride on the practice courts). Looking back, Roger knows these idle fantasies were less about the crushes in question and more about building intimacy with each other. The reason they could joke about it so freely is because they both knew that they were in this together for life, and that these jokes were, well, only jokes. 

Except.

One night, when the two of them were curled in bed after too much wine and too little sleep, Mirka asked Roger if he knew what a “hall-pass” was.

“A what?” Roger had asked, between yawns.

“Andy was telling me it’s when, you know...you give your spouse an exception for one person. Like a celebrity. Someone really famous.”

Fucking Roddick.

“Mirka, if this is your way of asking if I’d be okay with you sleeping with Andy—”

Mirka cuts him off with a pillow to the face.

“No, oh my god, Roger! I would—”

“Hey, hey, anyone would be lucky to be with Andy, he’s funny, he’s—”

“Are you trying to set me up with Andy now?”

“No, I mean, fuck—”

They’re both giggling now.

“C’mon, Roger. You must have someone in mind.”

Roger’s about to joke, say something stupid, but when he meets Mirka’s gaze, he finds she’s gone all serious. Soft. A little tipsy. But serious nonetheless. Roger sits up and rests his chin on his palm. His head is heavy, and the rooms feels slightly wobbly. Or maybe like it’s underwater?

They’ve had entirely too much wine for this conversation. 

(Or maybe they haven’t had nearly enough.)

“On the count of three, let’s say who we’d want our hall-pass to be,” says Mirka. “One...two…

“Rafa,” Roger blurts out before his very dumb brain can catch up to his even dumber tongue. 

Mirka, for her part, stares gape-mouthed. 

“I mean, this is not for real, right? I would never. Like never! I only want you. Just you. It’s always going to be you, and I mean, Rafa is also...I mean, he probably only likes women, eh. Maybe he’s even interested in you...oh god, is Rafa your hall-whatever? I mean, that would be fine, baby, I just—”

Mirka has started giggling in earnest now. 

“Oh my god, Roger, your face. God. Please stop before you hurt yourself. It’s fine! I mean, you’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know, you idiot.” 

Roger buries his head under a pillow and groans. Mirka pries the pillow from his face and kisses his temple.

“Wait, who would your hall-pass be?” Roger asks.

“Oh, ah, well.” Mirka blushes, and well, color Roger intrigued. “It’s Carlos.”

“Carlos...Moya?”

Mirka nods solemnly. 

“Fucking Spaniards,” says Roger, a grin slowly growing on his face.

“Fucking Spaniards,” mutters Mirka, in grim solidarity.)

~

It's just that'd he'd assumed the feeling would fade. That there would come a day when the wanting would melt into something more like friendship or easy camaraderie.

~

(Before he’d flown home from the museum opening, he’d asked after Rafa’s wrist. 

“The doctors say is no gonna be easy to get it ready for Australia,” he says, flexing the offending limb. 

“Oh, Rafa. I’m sorry.”

“Eh. Feels better. I gonna try and play Brisbane. We see, no?” he shrugs, and Roger hates this, hates that Rafa has become so accustomed to this merry-go-round of pain and weary patience. 

“Is okay, Roger.”

It’s really not.

“Is good, that I have this when I’m done for real, no?” says Rafa, nodding out towards the Academy’s practice courts, and Roger knows he’s trying to steer Roger back to warmer waters. He lets him.

“You gonna coach the next generation of Nadals? Be the next Uncle Toni?” asks Roger, grinning at Rafa’s indignant squawk. “You need an assistant?”

“Why, Roger? You need a job?” Rafa jokes. 

Both of them pretend they’re not looking at Roger’s knee. 

(They’re pretty bad at pretending.) 

“Well, if you’re offering.”

Roger lifts his head to smile at Rafa, but the other man’s face is suddenly serious. He grabs Roger by the arm. It’s his bad wrist, he can’t help but notice. He’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be the subject of one Rafael Nadal Parera’s laser-sharp focus. Almost. 

(It's not something you can easily forget.)

“You come to Mallorca any time, Roger, you know this. Any time. We coach the kids and make sure they no let Novak beat our records, yes?”

Roger laughs. “Yes. Of course I will come.”

Rafa nods, apparently satisfied, and drops his hand. And on the flight home, Roger feels something like peace for the first time in months. 

And yet, weeks later, by the time they reach the final in Melbourne, Roger cannot believe he ever felt anything like peace about their eventual retirement when he could have this, have Rafa on the other side of the net deep in the fifth under the lights of Rod Laver. It was crazy to think of settling down when he could still slash and burn his way through a tournament—every round unfolding before him like a movie where only he and Rafa knew the script. It was crazy, utterly insane even, to think of peace and quiet, when he could still have Rafa standing behind him on the winner’s podium, angry and hurting and beautiful and _ perfect_. He wants to tell Rafa, _ I didn’t know I could still have this. I didn’t know we could still have this. I didn’t know. _Wants to say, _ I would play you at the end of the world, if I could. If the seas rise and the mountains crumble, this would be enough. Just this. _Just the two of them, clothed in black and white—two figures from an old photograph roaring inexplicably back to life. Back in living color. 

(The trophy, after everything, feels oddly light in his arms, and he briefly ponders the wisdom of asking Rafa if they might bite it together.)

By the time they reach Laver Cup, the two of them have managed to rack up so many trophies that Roger worries he may be in a coma or some kind of fugue state. Surely that can be the only explanation for whatever time traveling nonsense has lead them here. To this. To Prague.

If Roger thought he had wanted Rafa before, it was nothing to how he felt now. The entire weekend goes by in a blur and when it’s over all Roger can remember is the solid weight of Rafa, the shape of him, the unmistakable heft of him against his chest. Rafa at his back by his side in his ear in his arms. _Christ._ Could it have been like this all along? What a waste. What an absolute fucking _shame._

At some point during Team Europe’s celebration, he gets a text from Stan:

**he’s not gonna be your boyfriend, eh ;)**

There are several photos attached. They appear to be of some highlights from the weekend, and later, after he’s said goodbye to the team and thrown up at least once (whether due to Rafa’s absence or the hangover, he’s not entirely sure), he looks back at the text, and realizes that Stan is right. 

Every picture is more incriminating than the last. Rafa and him laughing behind their teammates’s backs, constantly trying to get the other to giggle. There are photos of them pawing at each other's jackets, grabbing each other by the collar or sleeve, swinging arms over each other’s shoulders, bumping knees. The two of them meeting eyes at every press conference, cracking each other up over dinner, on the bench, in the locker room. Walking in sync. Playing in sync. Their faces all business when whispering during doubles, only to crinkle into helpless glee in the next shot. Rafa and those goddamn shorts hiked up around his armpits. Rafa and him celebrating in a sea of champagne, looking like a couple about to embark on their honeymoon.

How could anyone not know? Christ, how could _ Rafa _ not know? He feels like they could have showed up with each other’s names tattooed across their foreheads, and it would still have been more subtle than the images of Rafa launching himself into Roger’s arms. It’s mortifying. It’s liberating. It’s….well it’s high time he did something about this whole thing. 

He’d called Rafa baby, for fuck’s sake.)

~

But the wanting never left and the feelings never faded.

~

(On the flight back from Prague, Roger calls Mirka. 

“Baby? I’m invoking my hall-pass.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Laver Cup '19, baby. Finally. 
> 
> Also: Roger and Rafa's first on-court meeting was actually at Indian Wells during a doubles match. That match will also be making an appearance in a later chapter, because Rog isn't the only nostalgic guy in this relationship...;)
> 
> Thank you for the lovely feedback!


End file.
